


Goblin Men

by IgnobleBard



Category: Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti
Genre: Fantasy, Fruit, Gen, Goblins, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/pseuds/IgnobleBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on The Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti.</p><p>The goblins harvest their crop and set out though the realm of Faerie to tempt innocent young ladies in yonder glen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goblin Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killer_quean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killer_quean/gifts).



> Many thanks to Oshun, the world's best beta.

The predawn mist rose thick and oppressive, shrouding the glade in a pestilent fog. Orchards of peach, apple, plum, and cherry trees, their branches sagging in dejection grew row on row, while deeper into the glade lemon and orange trees sulked in the gloom. Patches of pineapple, melon, and strawberries struggled to wake from their beds. Bushes heavy with all manner of green berries, abutted by budding grape vines, hunkered down apologetically along the tree line as though hoping to escape notice.

Rat and Wombat entered the magic glade lugging baskets bigger than themselves and began to harvest their crop. Rat reached for a green peach, grinning a needle-sharp grin as it swelled and grew plump at his touch. Wombat ambled to the bushes, his fat little hands snatching up berries that ripened in his paw even as they were plucked. They moved with purpose through the glade, filling their baskets with all manner of perfect fruit, each peach velvet and blush as a maiden’s cheek, each cherry red as a maiden’s lips. They worked in the stifling miasma of the glade until the sun began to peek over the distant hills

They hurriedly completed their task, filling their baskets with deceptively beautiful, ripe fruit before leaving the glade. Behind them the now empty branches rattled like bones in the sere wind, brown and shriveled leaves tumbled over one another on the rocky ground. The glade disappeared, along with its bounty, along with the ghost trees and phantom bushes.

Rat and Wombat left without a backward glance, carrying their tempting load. Soon they saw Snail crawl out from the roots of a tree just as Cat-face dropped from its branches. Ratel appeared from a copse of low shrubs pulling the cart. When the others saw the fruit they all grabbed greedily at the baskets. Rat slapped their hands away and he and Wombat hefted the baskets onto the cart.

“Do you think today?” Rat said, his nose twitching, his ears twisting back and forth in his eagerness.

“Perhaps she will finally give in,” Ratel said, practically salivating with avarice, “her sister is already beginning to fade.”

“Note how she still comes to the stream every evening as we make our way through the glen,” Wombat said his lips twisted in an indolent sneer.

“Yet she never looks our way,” Rat pointed out.

“It is only a matter of time,” Snail drawled, inching up onto the cart and inspecting the fruit. He began to pick through the selections, taking out the ones he deemed not good enough for their purposes and setting them aside.

“What do you plan to do with those?” Cat-face asked with a laugh.

“We can sell them at market,” Snail said. “Somebody’ll want ‘em.”

“Ridiculous,” said Rat. “They are all equally good.”

“Exactly, there’s plenty of pull in all these,” Wombat drawled, caressing a discarded melon lasciviously with his paw. “Rat and I know how to pick them.”

Snail shrugged. “Still, even ten maidens could not eat all this.”

“You underestimate the appetite of a maiden for the forbidden,” Cat-face said, licking his lips. “Golden hair was succulent indeed, can her sister be less?”

“Indeed,” Ratel rejoined, “look how long it took to ensnare the one with the bright, clear eyes and modest nature. She warned her sister not to look but came to peep herself and once she had seen she had to taste, and once she had tasted. . .” he trailed off, his beady eyes rapturous with joy at the memory. “She was easily broken. Our golden-haired maiden wants more. I can feel her longing even now. She yearns for us, pines for us, fades for want of what we offer. The other one never gives us a look, covers her eyes when we approach. But now we’ve had one, the other must give in. She will taste our wares, and when she does we will have her too!”

“And a fine time it will be,” Rat said, practically dancing with excitement. “We had best get started. We don’t want to be late.” He climbed up into the cart beside Snail as the others pulled the cart up the dirt path.

They had not gone far when Whisk-tail and Parrot-voice joined them. Soon, bird-like and beast-like came the others until the full company was tramping along together chattering and congratulating themselves on their cleverness. Their path took them through the realm of Faery, where time and place shift according to the whims of its inhabitants.

In the far distance stood the castle of Camelot and closer, in an island on the river, stood the tower where the Lady of Shallot endlessly wove scenes reflected in her mirror. As they watched, a rider headed for Camelot passed along the road his armor gleaming in the morning sun.

“She’ll be out of that tower before nightfall when she catches a glimpse of him,” Whisk-tail chortled.

“No, she won’t risk the curse for the likes of him,” Ratel said. “Hear how she sings, she sounds cheerful enough.”

“Perhaps not, but young Lancelot has a reputation with the ladies. If she’d risk the curse for anyone, it would probably be him,” Wombat said.

“True,” Snail agreed. “We all know young ladies tend to lose their heads for the right man. . . or the ripe fruit.”

They all laughed. “We will put that to the test soon enough,” Wombat said wickedly.

“Soon enough,” Parrot-voice echoed.

The day continued to brighten around them as they traveled until they reached the tulgey wood where it grew dark again as they took the path through the dense trees. They passed through a clearing where a sundial stood in a patch of bright light. A slithy tove peeked out from under it, flicking its corkscrew tongue. “Got any cheese?” it called plaintively.

“Not this trip,” Ratel called back. He shook his head and looked at the others. “He always asks and he always gets the same answer.”

“Not the brightest of creatures,” Cat-face sneered.

The tove slithered forlornly back into its lair under the wabe as they passed on by.

All about them the woods came alive as the day deepened. Bandersnatch ran to and fro across the path while Jubjub birds hopped awkwardly through the trees. They heard a whiffling and burbling off to the right but paid it no mind. They had no time to sport with a Jabberwock.

Soon the path left the wood and became grassy, skirting along the edge of a lake. Ahead there was a knight talking to a woman with a garland of flowers upon her brow. She was weaving an enchantment around him as he gazed adoringly upon her. Spring flowers bloomed in abundance on the shores and perfumed the pure, clear air. Beside her, unseen by the man, spirits of dead knights, pale and wasted, reached out to him shouting their warnings but he could see nothing but the woman.

“Beautiful, beautiful. Yes, I will follow you anywhere,” he murmured as though in a dream.

The goblins laughed and nudged each other at the sight. “I would love to raid her honeycomb,” Wombat said with an evil smile and wink at Rat.

“I fear your reach exceeds your grasp, dear brother,” Rat chuckled.

“If our fair maidens were not a sweeter prize I would take that challenge,” Wombat replied.

Ratel snickered but wisely remained silent.

They continued on, the sounds of the sea growing closer. The tide was coming in and queer little men in green jackets and red caps gathered the yellow seafoam to make their breakfast. The sound of their singing drifted back to the goblins. They grimaced and covered their ears.

“Such a racket!” Whisk-tail said. “They should save that caterwauling for journeys with their witless king.”

They stepped up their pace, hurrying along past the coast and the marshes beyond. As the terrain began to even out cliffs rose in the distance. Waterfalls tumbled from their faces, fell musically into pools and streams below. They heard the crystal notes of Elf horns faintly blowing from the wild lands, echoing on and on. They were getting close now. They saw a faery leading a human child by the hand, drying the child’s tears as it whispered of the wonders that lay ahead.

“Some house in the village wakes to a changeling today,” Ratel said gleefully.

“A good omen for us, perhaps,” Rat said.

Now they reached their destination, just in time for the maidens who lived in the glen to be finishing their daily chores and perhaps coming to the brook to draw water. They each took a basket, a golden bowl or plate, and trooped down the glen through the grasses and weeds calling out to all who could hear: “Come buy our orchard fruits. Come buy, come buy!”

A few maids heard the call but none came to them. Undeterred, they marched along certain that at some point they would strike gold.

Twilight was falling when they spied Lizzie  
Lingering by the brook  
With calm and steadfast look  
They set upon her, leaping, flying, creeping  
Sly and hopeful, jovial, jokefull  
Pushing to get near  
“Look what we have my dear!”  
But Lizzie offered up instead  
A silver penny, payment for their goods  
Held out her apron, bade them fill it up  
With their fresh peaches, apples, berries  
For her sister in her stead  
She declined with them to dine  
Because she had to sup  
With her dear sister who longed for  
Goblin fruits to fill her up  
At last they tried to force her  
Shoved the succulent morsels towards her  
But her lips remained closed fast  
A stone upon the grass  
Like a tide unleashed they buffeted  
Her stalwart countenance  
Shouting and shoving  
Pushing and rubbing  
The fruit upon her face  
In her hair, upon her dress  
Their juice upon unyielding lips  
Their anger mountainous  
Until at last her resistance  
Overcame their heated resolve  
Forcing them to relinquish their hope to tempt her  
Into following her sister  
Into sharing her unhappy fate  
Lizzie left them furious and appalled  
She would not take the bait  
And fall as other maids had  
Into their concupiscent trap  
They took to brook and earth and air  
Vanishing in a snap

 

~~****~~

 

Many years later a golden haired maid was dallying by the village well when two merchants strolled by with a cart full of ripe, succulent fruit. They were a queer pair. One had a long nose and big ears, the other was short and squat with furry muttonchop sideburns. She watched as they set up their bins with an astonishing variety of fresh fruit. Peaches velvet and blush as a maiden’s cheek, cherries plump and red as a maiden’s lips. She thought it a strange time to be opening up. It was twilight and the shops and market had closed. In fact, the street was empty except for the three of them.

 

She drew her water hurriedly and went to hasten home. Something about their demeanor disturbed her, stirred a vague memory. They smiled and bowed as she approached.

 

“Come buy our fruit, come buy!” Long-nose called to her with a toothy smile.

 

“I fear I have no money,” she murmured, walking past without a backward glance.

 

“You have the gold upon your head,” the short one called. “One lock for a peach or apple? Come buy, come buy!”

 

She hesitated in her step, turning back at last to gaze upon the fruit with longing. Surely there had never been a more seductive array. _Men sell not such in any town_ was her only thought. Yet something tugged at her soul. A story from long ago that she couldn’t quite recall. In her perusal of the cart a golden pear caught her eye, fleshy and chill, all but bursting with syrupy juice. She reached for it. The men leaned forward in anticipation. A dimpled finger hovered indecisively. . .

 

“Come home, Lizzie!” her sister called, running up and seizing her arm without a glance at the cart. “The fire is lit and supper is waiting.”

 

Lizzie smiled at her sister. “Yes, let’s go home, Lucy dear,” she said. “I have no appetite for fruit this evening after all.” She turned away from the men and took her sister’s arm.

 

The two walked off together into the gathering dusk, golden head to golden head.

**Author's Note:**

> The story contains references to Victorian poems in the following order:
> 
> The Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson  
> Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll  
> La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats  
> The Fairies by William Allingham  
> Blow Bugle Blow by Alfred Lord Tennyson  
> The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats  
> A really bad knock off of The Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti


End file.
